Sunday, November 23, 2008

Knowing that there's decent chocolate somewhere in the house. Just in case.

A quiet house at the end of the day or first thing in the morning.

A really, very, exceptionally good day with the kidlets. Most days are good, but some just shine.

Facebook Flair. ("There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased that line and replaced it with a small trout.")

Good wishes from meaningful figures in my life.

Little guy, cooing and chortling to his sisters.

Watching the lap swimmers while I walk the aforementioned kiddo around and around in the pool, hugging the lane markers to avoid splashes from the other families. I fantasize a little, my cells recalling the slip of water over belly and thighs, the feel of stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, and the surge of delight in a well-executed dive.

Prayer, contemplation, meditation. I don't often hold still for these activities, especially since doing so often results in my falling asleep, but I absolutely treasure the space in my head that's reserved for this type of thinking and/or activity. I use it all day, every day in big and little increments.

A really good walk in sunny, apple-crunchy crisp air, with good conversation and great scenery.

My parents, married forty-one years today, their forbearance in letting us be here and other myriad help they offer. Having a warm place to be is awesome, and this place is so much more than that. (My mom was here with the kids, one of three adults who stepped in while I was off to court, and she has since had just the sweetest and most complimentary things to say about the stuff I do here daily. It makes me blush.)

Lunges and squats. I know this puts me somewhere in the realm of the demented, but wait: the doing of particular exercises is the only thing staving off further intervention with this silly knee. I slipped on a small invisible puddle while passing through a hospital cafeteria last week. I splatted unceremoniously and was sore, but nothing was dislocated (a minor miracle, given my history) and I'm crediting my own persistence in the pursuit of muscle-making, thank you very much. You see? Lunges and squats.

Good food. Orange-scented, nutmeg and vanilla, maple syrup-topped French toast. A salad made with pears and apples and bleu cheese with cardamom, black pepper, ginger, and chili powder-spiced candied walnuts. Roasted carrots and parsnips, sauteed rainbow chard with a little garlic. And a tortellini salad with garbanzos, capers, fresh basil, little rings of multi-colored baby sweet peppers and crumbled feta. Yup. Lots of comfort in the sensuality of awesome food -- making, eating, cleaning up and teaching the next generation. Love it.

Last but far from least, there are moments in which I sort of watch myself and my punkins interact, kind of removed from the situation, thinking about how we'll remember that frame caught in time. The eldest becomes this funny, self-possessed young man; the second-born a treasure of anticipating, striving responsibility; the middlest ever more creative and beguiling. Number four grows her vocabulary and conceptualization almost hourly, always popping out the very funniest and most profound things one is likely to hear on any given day; and Q. Whipping his head around when he hears the word "pool" or to find the sound of running water. And, oh, the fatness of those cheeks...

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Me

I'm mothering five gorgeous, perfect children, and homeschooling three of them. I am one of the best-blessed mamas in the universe. Oh and -- there's the small matter of neuro issues here. I suspect that somehow the littlest one's Special Needs behave as some sort of condenser that delivers unusual configurations of Rainbows, Butterflies and Bliss, right in the midst of the ubiquitous and itinerant crazy bits. So we have some stories to tell.